


dinosaurs didn't read (now they're extinct)

by meremennen



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BFF!Clarke, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Mild Angst, POV Bellamy Blake, cage is the worst, librarian!Bellamy, tw for minor language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-25 05:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17718848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meremennen/pseuds/meremennen
Summary: Based on the prompt:You are a librarian, and you have two problems:1. There are too many books and not enough shelves, so you’re required to go through and throw out all the duplicates, outdated encyclopedia sets, trashy magazines, etc.2. Someone keeps pulling them out of the trash and putting them back on the shelves.





	dinosaurs didn't read (now they're extinct)

**Author's Note:**

> In which Bellamy is a sexy librarian, all tousled dark hair and molten eyes, with an unwavering respect for books, wearing dark framed glasses like no one else. Although, not specifically requested by the dean or the board, to work, he is dressed in pressed white or light grey dress shirt (sleeves rolled up to his elbows, come on, yOU KnoW the DRiLL) and matching dark pants. On weekdays, he even fancies a skinny tie.

***

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

He hates the sound of discarding books.  Not just any books, but encyclopedias - all rich in knowledge and words and history - something he would have committed a crime for to own, and willingly, as a boy. And to make matters far worse, they are mostly in perfectly fine condition.

If only his boss, mother-fucking Cage Wallace, Ph.D. ( _Scoff!_ ) would listen for once and understand why this is so morally wrong. Practically the death sentence of a piece of history, in his humble opinion.

“Mr Blake, for the thousandth time, throwing those books away we have deemed useless to our institution shouldn’t be _this_ hard. We hired you - _I_ hired you - because my father has been raving about your high intellect and quick thinking. He said - and I quote - you were one of his top students, a pleasure to teach during his academic career and prepare for capital LIFE as an esteemed professor to be of Classics. So please, do tell, why is it so hard to execute a simple order and get rid of those books...”

Bellamy genuinely hates his boss.

He tried not to, he did, but ever since his first week at work at _Arcadia Campus Library,_ Cage has done something that qualifies assholery, ranging from a scornful look to biting remarks.

Cage Wallace is a troll.

Despite having a ‘challenging’ work environment, Bellamy loves his job: He loves the smell of the old wooden bookshelves and antique tapestry; he loves the eery creaking sound in the floorboards and the tiny art deco staircase and its metal railing decorated with intricate swirling pattern of tendrils leading down to the filing room they all call the _ghost room_. Hell, he even loves the ancient paper-based filing system with the worn paper library cards that everyone else hates besides him - because it’s too manual and gave them already one too many paper cuts. But. He has a true love for this place which is, of course, in big part due to his love for the books. But, he truly, honestly, justifiably hates his boss.

As Cage Wallace gives him one of his yet another scolding speeches about the importance of following his latest executive decision of dealing with (read: sizing down on) duplicates, Bellamy tries to keep his breathing even, face nonchalant by the man’s condescending tone.

His eyes are glancing between Cage’s sleazy face (he shaved today, and probably in a hurry if the thin line of a cut above his upper lip is any telling) and the oversized cherry tree desk - eyes catching on the desk name plate, coated in faux gold, proudly announcing his doctorate.

 

**Dr Cage Wallace, Ph.D.**

_\- Political Sciences/Sociology -_

 

Doctor. _Bleh_.

Bellamy has finished his own Ph. D program under the patronage of Cage’s father, Professor Dante Wallace and has earned his title with flying colours.

And yet, Cage conveniently forgets to address _him_ , or any one of his fellow educated subordinates (Bellamy’s peers) by their professional title.

A shining example of his trolling behaviour.

His best friend says this power play is obviously a way to make him feel being the dominant party; compensating for his erectile dysfunction in his pants. (Not that they know this for certain - he had a girlfriend for a while - but he likes to believe the universe has a sense of humour when it comes to Cage Wallace and alike and cosmic justice has been served.)

Ignorant bastard.

But the pay is decent; he loves being around the books, and this work is only temporary. Really.

“... so let me remind you this one more time. We have no use of the books in question. Nor do we have the space to store them. It is a luxury to keep junk around for the mere purpose of collecting dust.”

He stretches his fingers at his side, fisting them into a ball, before stretching them again and finally letting them go limp.  

First the outdated copies of _The Arcadian History Observer_ and now the books.

 _H o w_ his boss has a P h. D in Sociology _and_ Political Sciences is beyond him. Honestly.

Full disclosure, Bellamy has suggested giving the books away for charity, and transfer them to other universities or libraries in need across the country. The withering look Cage was giving him will stick with him for a long time, considering he is giving him the same look just now.

(Cage disagreed then and dismissed him with a flick of his wrist. And he clearly doesn’t want to change his mind now. Or ever.)

“I understand, Dr Wallace. I must have misplaced them,” he replies through gritted teeth, gripping the side of his pants once more, bracing himself for more scolding. To the outside world his composure is perfectly professional; though, he’d be lying to say he has never considered smothering his boss.

Anyway.

To be quite frank, he doesn’t know what happened - _how_ those books marked to be thrown away ended up back on the shelves for the third time.

So he nods along and promises to do as he is told.

“And Mr Blake?“ Cage’s voice stops him, biting, just as he is reaching for the knob and seconds away from being through the door. “Don’t make me ask Miss Vie to show you the ropes again.“

Bellamy nods in acknowledgement, cusses in silence.

He knows what the hidden statement behind those words means. He knows him too well by now. Miss Vie, or Maya, is Cage’s personal assistant for many years, and by extension, he likes to have her around practically 25/7: He requires to have her at hand and fulfil any mundane task he has for her.

What he really means is this: Were Maya not there when Cage needs her at utmost urgency, tending to something ‘most important matter’ to him... - well, Bellamy doesn’t want to be around and witness when Bree or Mel or Riley Odinson or any of the new apprentices start weeping. Or worse, thanks to the repercussions that follow such unfortunate events. (Bree has thrown up and Riley fainted on one particularly fine occasion.)

Six months.

He inhales sharply, taking a deep, calming breath.

He’s been at the _Arcadia Campus Library_ for years, and if all goes well there are about another six months left from this assignment. Hopefully, he is getting tenure before the new academic year begins. (In big part thanks to the now retired Professor Dante Wallace and his fine successor, Professor Marcus Kane, but not least to his own unwavering hard will and passion to get there.)  
Until then, he is a part-time teaching assistant for Professor Kane’s _British History: The Rise of The Victorian Middle Class_ and _The Fall of The Roman Empire_ post-graduate courses this semester, but on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays he is under Cage’s surveillance.

 

Re-collecting the books should be so easy. By now, he knows their exact location between the stacks by heart. And yet... There is this uneasy feeling in his chest - that this is so wrong, and maybe there is a good reason the books have resurfaced again.

He sighs, starting for the books and with a heavy heart, he sorts them under the ‘RECYCLE’ sign.

 

*

 

At lunch, he cannot help but notice Fox’s worried glare at his direction. He knows the drill. By now, Cage has made sure to drop a word here and there how ‘some people’ are incapable of following orders. He also catches Riley, Niylah and Bree whisper amongst themselves at the far table in their little common room, though, it’s not likely they are trying too hard to be subtle about it. (His colleagues are joking it must be a ghost.)

 

*

 

He is in the blue wing, in search for a couple interlibrary loans, and diligently reminds himself not to forget registering the copies in question as unavailable for the following weeks in the library’s electronic system. The blue wing is the oldest and these stacks are his favourite; in his rather biased opinion, with their cozy cushioned armchairs and small antique tables and reading lamps, this library is the best in town.

He scribbled the call numbers on a piece of paper. The others like to use the library app on their smartphones, and honestly, he is not opposed to using the app, but there’s something comforting about feeling the rough edges of the paper under his fingertips. It’s something familiar.

One book down, another one to go.

It reads: _Gustav Klimt. The golden artist._

He smiles. Clarke has probably had this book checked out once or twice. There was a time last semester when they were experimenting with shiny metallic colours in her _Abstract Painting_ class, and she was raving a lot about all the artists they had to research. Or how this or that was an interesting concept but “I don’t think focusing on charcoal or acrylic or oil paints, or even limiting myself to just one style is me”. She was bubbling with so much conviction and lightness in her voice, eyes so bright like the clear sky - he certainly got lost in the blues of them - that he almost leaned in closing the distance and kissed her just to taste her happiness.

Instead, his hand was in motion, the traitor, and coming over his panic, he tucked a stray hair behind her ears.

He said, “You can do whatever the hell you want, princess. The sky is the limit.”

 

As if she is summoned by his thoughts, he catches a flash of red and yellow from the corner of his eyes.  
  
His legs follow like some weird magnetic force is pulling him to that direction.

 _Maybe it’s not even Clarke, dummy. Don’t be a creeper_ , he reprimands himself. There are definitely more girls in town who own a red coat (same length as hers) and happen to have fair hair like a princess.  
Plus, he knows it on good authority that she has a yoga class at this hour.

Surprisingly, it’s her.

He stops short, taking her in. But before he would turn into a real creep by staring at her for too long and being caught in the act and scare her; he clears his throat, announcing his presence and steps to her side in a few long strides.

“Clarke? What are you doing -“ but the words die on his tongue as he sees the heavy pile of encyclopedias in her hand. To be more precise, “his” encyclopedias, the books he was ordered to get rid of.

His eyes focus, first on the shelf, then on BC.100.48.S4 - the book on top - and then back on the shelves it should be housed (or used to be) without a second thought.

_What the actual f-_

“It was you??” His stomach drops. “All along?”

A beat.

“You’re the ghost?” voice incredulous.

She opens her mouth to respond but stops short halfway as if to consider her words very carefully. In the end, she thinks better of it and simply nods.

“I -“

“No, Clarke - “

“Bellamy,” she lays a hand on his forearm, his eyes dropping instantly to where she is touching him. “Just - just let me explain, I - “

He cannot help it, he feels betrayed. And it’s worse because she is his friend and even if logically he knows she didn’t want to hurt him specifically, it stings. She should have told him.

But then, what?

“Did you even stop and think for a minute?” His voice harsh.

She looks so haunted, he feels horrible for doing this to her, reacting this strong but _goddamit_ he feels betrayed. Deep down. It doesn’t matter right now whether her intentions were pure.

“I-“ she starts, her voice wavering. A quick look at her face - lips quivering, tears glistening in her eyes -

He hesitates only for a minute before he reaches for her hand, fingers curling around her wrist gently.

He doesn’t like (or ever wishes to) making her cry.

“Mr Blake! I’ve been looking for you.”

Bellamy cranes his neck to the side. _What now?_

Cage certainly has an uncanny ability to ruin a moment. Well, he is not really ruining anything when he fears his friendship with Clarke is crumbling to ashes, but one thing is sure: Out of all people, Cage is the last person he wants around to witness any of it.

“Stop what you’re doing. I’ve been thinking... And, after further consideration, the directive of sizing down our stock is really unnecessary at the moment and I thought better of it. You were right.”

He doesn’t believe it.

“We should look into - other ... options. And I’d like to ask _you_ , specifically, to come up with a few ideas. If you want to involve Miss Bragg or Mr Odinson or any of the newest recruits, please do so.”  

Bellamy is quite frankly, seems to have lost his voice in surprise. Because honestly, what has just happened?

 _Did he hear him right?_ It’s not an apology, but close enough.

His stupor is short-lived, thanks to Cage’s unusually kind parting words. He blinks and nods at him in acknowledgement.

“Miss Griffin, may I remind you that although these premises are open to the public, but Mr Blake is on the clock. Keep this,” he gestures with his hand between them, eyes lingering way too long on Clarke to his liking” whatever it is - short.”

Then, Cage turns on his heels and leaves them without saying anything more.

Bellamy lets out a long breath he didn’t know he was holding, turning to face Clarke.

“I should be so mad at you.”

She sags, guilty. “I know, Bell.”

His heart flutters at the nickname.

 _Bell_.

It took a while for them to get here, being honest friends and her calling him by his pet name - a rather intimate term of endearment. Only his sister was allowed to call him Bell for a long time.

But things have changed, and one day in the midst of a highly constructive and fruitful argument - when their faces were just inches away, a few strands of her hair escaping from her carefully combed braid, both panting and heated from the intensity of their debate - he thought ... he thought he had been seconds away ruining their friendship by planting a long-awaited kiss right on her lips. He was tempted, again. He lost count of the times he’d been tempted to close the distance and pull her to his side, burying his hands into her hair. But then... she yelled “I swear to God, Bell - “ but she couldn’t finish, thanks to the sudden attack of hiccups.

So that ended the argument, and the pet name - following the hiccup incident -somehow (thankfully) stuck.

“Whoa, Princess.” He took a step back because honestly - what the fuck.

“You doing alright?” One hand gently petting her back, the vibrations radiating off of her body, so powerful, the tremors reverberating even through his arm.

 

“And - are you?”

_Is he?_

She cannot keep eye contact for long, she is looking down instead, kicking at imaginary pebbles. He thinks she is adorable, in a distractingly attractive way.

“- are you - are you _very_ mad? Or how mad are you? On the C-Wallace assholery scale, one to ten.

“Or ... remember that time you give me this long passionate speech about responsible drinking when Finn Collins and his buddies got me too drunk that I have fallen asleep on the stairway?”

“Three,” he replies instantly.“ Because you seriously could have gotten me fired. And no,” he huffs. “That was highly irresponsible! You know that! What if one of the frat guys found you and - God knows what they could have done to you like that -“

She winces, shoulders slumping lower.

Yeah, she had been extremely lucky that no one creepy was wandering around on the fourth floor, when the party (and people who could have watched out for her) was in the basement.

He almost called the police and filed a missing persons report.

(Clarke dated Finn Collins in high school for a few short months only, but she broke it off after learning about his second girlfriend. Or well, technically his first girlfriend, that made her an accomplice in his cheating fiasco. They have gotten past that, and they are - if not exactly friends, but something akin to friendly acquaintances now. It’s just - he could never cheat on someone he is committed to, even if the love is gone.)

 

Looking at her now, she is looking so guilty, almost broken at his words, and his insides churn in causing her distress.

He honestly hates himself right now, she looks so small and vulnerable, like a songbird with a broken wing. He just wants to step closer and envelop her in a warm, reassuring hug. And as much as his anger is not without any grounds, he is also so weak for her.

“Look. I’m not - I am not _angry_ angry. In all honesty, you got me more riled about mentioning Finn Collins and his stupid friends,” flashing one of his cocky smirks in hopes of relieving the tension.

The air around them feels noticeably lighter in an instant following his heated remark. She presses her lips together before catching her bottom lip under her teeth, mouth curving into a minuscule, shy smile.

“Now, you better help me collect the books before Cage seeks me out again. Do you have any idea how heavy those things are?” He is eyeing her pointedly. She gives him a look, _she knows._ “I am impressed, by the way, how you could pull this off alone.”

“Whatever you say.” Clarke shrugs. “But you should know, “bending down to pick up the books she discarded on the floor.” I might have sent an Anonymous complaint to the Board of Directors through the Campus ask box and the library’s website - saying, I cannot find the 1981 Edition of the _Cambridge Encyclopedia_ and it’s a valuable source to my research paper on ‘How a decade can rewrite our perception of history’.

“You did not.”

She pouts. “I did too.”

He is still sceptical for a heartbeat, but this is Clarke, the most stubborn person he knows (besides him) we are talking about.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that! It’s true! My paper was due last week.”

He doesn’t trust himself but asks anyway.

“How do I look at you?” His voice is shaky.

She swallows. “Intense.”

Maybe her voice shakes a little too because her eyelashes are blinking rapidly like wings of a spooked butterfly.

He gulps.

It’s true. He’s feeling a wide range of emotions (very intense emotions) - all tied to the girl standing in front of him.

Adoration.

Gratitude.

Tiny bit of lingering anger still.

Longing.

Belonging.

Desire.

Love.

So much love, he thinks, in one moment it will burst out of his chest.

A few beats later, Clarke is the one to break the silence.

“Besides, the man is an ass. Griffin justice has been served.”

He snorts.

_I love you. So. Much._

A beat.

“ _What?_ ” She is gaping at him, mouth hanging open, lips forming a silent ‘o’.

He gulps. Looks like it’s something he does a lot around her lately, but especially when she surprises him with her words or genuine reactions so much and he gets emotional. The tie he’s wearing today is getting a little suffocating around his neck. So what? He is losing his cool a little bit and he did, in fact, say the words out loud. It was inevitable.

_Ooops._

But he does love her, as in, he is in love with her despite the rocky start of their relationship (and despite for being so annoyingly reckless in times like this).

But that was _then_ , and they have grown past that and evolved, first to friends - who understand each either from a quirk of an eyebrow or a simple glance - then to best friends.

And this is _now_.

The moment of truth.

“Pinky swear?”

He ducks his head, needing a moment to recollect himself. But when he straightens, he is meeting her eyes straight and unblinking. In stark contrast to him, she is studying him, shy and uncertain.

A single ‘yes’ or a nod is not enough to express what he wants to say. So he does none of that.

He blows out the air stuck in his lungs through his mouth. If some tribes needed a ritualistic dance before going to battle, this is it, this moment of silence and the comfort of breathing in and out, and in and out is his small personal ritual; bracing himself.

“So ... you wanna make out in the stacks?”

Clarke is cocking an eyebrow at him, in confusion maybe, or surprise. (He hopes it’s the latter.) And then - she beams at him and laughs. That catching, rare, uncontrollable bubbling laugh he loves so much.

“Lead the way, _Dr Blake_.”

He loves the way his name rolls off her lips, he always loved it; but now, with the burden of a confession off his shoulders it sounds so much sweeter (and headier).

He grabs for her hands, enveloping her palms in his, pulling her close. Time slows down around them as the physical distance between their bodies disappears. Their foreheads touch first and upon that contact, he catches her lips with his own.

The kiss is short and sweet but messy, mostly teeth and lips mingling with puffs of hot air.

It’s the best.

 _Play it cool, Bellamy_ , a little voice in his head whispers but he really can’t do that, not now - when he is kissing the love of his goddamn life on the lips for the first time.

Eventually, they break away, still smiling - Clarke is coyly biting her bottom lip. Bellamy is so in awe of her, quite possibly the stupidest smile shining on his face, it almost hurts.

“Wow,” Clarke breathes, catching her breath, “that happened, Dr Blake. I’ve gotta say, that was probably a solid B.”

“I sure can do better.”

“Show me.”

She squeezes his hand, he squeezes back and they bolt for the staircase.

The ghost room is the best hiding place he can think of.

 

***

 

On his last day as a senior librarian at the _Arcadia Campus Library_ , Bellamy and Clarke sneak down one last time to the ghost room, and they admittedly do a little more than just kissing.

When they emerge, their clothes are rumpled and hanging askew, cheeks still flushed and hair messy.

What a way to say goodbye, and start a new chapter of his (their) life.

 

***

 

His new office is the one in the West Wing,  exquisite view on the quad.

No desk plate, but a small potted wisteria tree - a welcome present from Professor Kane with an oversized white ribbon around it - greeting the visitors from his new office desk, and the brand new plaque on the door displays:

 

**Professor Bellamy Blake**

_Ph. D. in Classics_

 

Teaching Assistant: Zoe Monroe

 

Office hours:

Monday 3:00 - 5:00 p.m.

Thursday 4:30 - 6:30 p.m.

 

(Clarke, his girlfriend, breaks those rules all the time.)

 

*** *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think! <3
> 
> You can find a graphics/edit in [this post](http://meremennen.tumblr.com/post/182689780658/dinosaurs-didnt-read-now-theyre-extinct-based).


End file.
